We All Have Our Roles to Play
by Vegas9
Summary: Continuation of the scene from I (series 1, episode 1) of Jack and Anne in the tavern after Jack thinks they've guaranteed Singleton's Captaincy over Flint. Sometimes, she loves when he's clever.


She reaches down, hand cupping the bulge at the front of Jack's pants like she's laying claim despite the fact that they're in the middle of the tavern and it's full to the brim of people that could see the action. Or perhaps she does it _because_ they're in public. He jumps and she smirks.

"I wanna fuck," she looks up at him from under the brim of her hat and he turns to her with a wry smile.

"Because of what I just said?" he asks. He's practically preening, bolstered by the genius of his own plan that's falling together before his very eyes.

"The fuck's it matter to you?" she shoots back, dragging her hand up until the heel of her palm reaches his belt.

He bites his lip and looks over at the bar where things are starting to come together with the strings he's manipulated to his ends. He can't hear what's being said, but there's a part of him that wants to keep an eye on this so it doesn't fuck up. But he also isn't about to turn down Anne when she wants him enough that she's willing to get even half this close in a public place.

"Alright then," he nods, eyes dropping to the heavy silver pendant that hangs from her neck. She's covered up from the neck down like always, but he knows that the bit of metal rests between her breasts when it ends up under her shirt.

Without waiting for any further confirmation she turns on her heel and he follows her up the stairs, watching the way her coat swishes around her calves in the absence of being able to stare at her backside while she ascends. It's a double-edged sword the knowledge he has of her. She hides her body under the heavy coat and layers of clothing and he will sometimes allow himself to bask in the knowledge that he's the only person who knows the lean body that's more lithe than curvy is what's under all that clothing. It's just that even if she's fully dressed, because he knows, she can be a horrible distraction to him without so much as trying.

They enter the room and as soon as he's over the threshold she's slamming the door shut and shoving him against it. Her hat falls off when she pins him between her and the unyielding door and she kicks it away without so much as looking at it. She's aggressive, forcing him to open his lips and without a moment's hesitation she's shoved her tongue in his mouth and she's kissing him like she's drowning and he's the only air there is. He responds in kind, hands tight on her hips to haul her against the front of his body. He's already hard, the combination of his surprise at her boldness downstairs and the anticipation that always comes when she _wants_ like this.

Her lips are on his neck now, she bites and sucks with no consideration for any marks she might leave and he's a dead man. The groan passes his lips and she murmurs a sound of approval. She yanks his shirt from where it's tucked into his trousers and her fingers fumble with the buttons furiously until the linen garment is partly open. By the time she gets most of the way to the bottom she's lost her patience and pulls hard on either side of the shirt, sending the last few buttons flying to land on the floor and roll away.

Her lips are on his again to keep him quiet – because she knows he's going to complain, if not now then certainly later – and her nails scrape over his skin with little regard for how hard she's pressing until they get to his shoulders. Without any further thought, she pushes the layers; jacket and shirt, off of him in the same move. With his chest bare she stops and pulls away to just look at him in the low light. She catches his eyes drop to the floor, settling on what she already knows is his clothing in disarray on the wooden boards. Anne can very nearly hear the thoughts running through his head and she steps into him, hand cupping his balls through the front of the pants, not unlike just the moment before in the tavern proper. Jack is a damned genius, but she don't want his mind able to wander to anything that ain't her right now.

"Leave it," she orders and his gaze snaps back up to her face. "If they ain't in the same place in the morning I promise you'll regret it," she threatens, knowing that when he thinks she's finally drifted off to sleep he has the audacity to get out of bed and fold any clothing that's been strewn about. Tonight she wants him and unless the fucking tavern catches fire she doesn't want him stealing out of bed after the fact just because he thinks she's asleep.

He swallows, but nods. His hands tremble just that little bit as he reaches for her sword belt, eyes silently asking for permission and a smile curls across her lips. She likes him compliant, especially when she knows he's been orchestrating and in charge of shit with the crew. She nods and he deftly unbuckles the belt, taking it off gingerly so the weight of her blades doesn't yank it out of his hands. Though she can see him nearly vibrating with the urge to set them on some surface, he crouches down to lay them on the floor gently.

"That's it," she murmurs, reaching out to run her fingers through his hair. She shrugs out of her coat, its own weight dropping it to the floor in a whoosh of air followed by an almost lifelike thump.

His hands curl around the backs of her knees, just above her boots, and he rests his head against her stomach. With a sigh Anne tips his head back, fingertips on either side of his jaw. Sometimes, when it all works out, she loves how clever he is. Loves the way that for as brilliant as he is, he'll give it up entirely and let her make the decisions. She's never had any designs on a position that puts her in command, but this... this she likes.

"Kiss me," she doesn't have to put force into her voice to know that he'll do it.

Sure enough, he comes to his feet, if a bit ungainly, and runs one hand up the side of her neck to cup her face. His other arm goes around her waist and he pulls her in sweetly. When he presses his lips to hers there's no demand to it. He kisses her like there isn't anything else he'd rather be doing, long and lingering, all tender care like she doesn't drink and swear with the best of them. She tries to let it remain that way, wants to enjoy it as much as he does, but she's spent all evening drinking with him and watching everything he's worked for come together and fuck if it's not one of the most attractive things he does.

Now there's hardly anything in her that isn't the wanting; wanting to feel him and know he's absolutely hers, wanting to reward a plan that's gone off well.

So while she tries to stay sweet because she knows what that does to him, she doesn't want to. She wants him to take her hard and fast like he owns a piece of her because nights like these she don't mind being his instead of the other way around. There's hardly a person in the West Indies who says her name without his. She's dominated the kiss again, her hands making quick work of his belt so she can shove her hands down the back of his trousers. Jack doesn't seem to mind her impatience, his own hand has drifted down from the side of her face to palm her breast, fingers pinching her nipple through the thin shirt with a sharp tug that causes her to surge against him with a soft cry.

"Get outta your boots," she's only pulling away so she can yank hers off as well. Unlike hers, his have laces, so while she waits for him to fumble with those she slips out of her trousers because she sure as fuck ain't going to want to spend more time apart from him to take care of them later. He's still trying to work the second boot off of his foot, having barely untied it when she steps past him and locks the door. You can't really buy yourself any privacy in Nassau, but she's in no mood to be walked-in on accidentally or otherwise.

Her hand is still on the lock when Jack's arms circle around her waist from behind. She leans into him and her eyes flutter shut as his lips find her neck, her own parting in a sigh. His hands slide down to the outsides of her thighs, fingers curling under the hem of her shirt.

"Y'can take it off," she says quietly.

That surprises him, she feels him go completely still behind her, barely breathing. Smart man that he is, he doesn't ask if she's sure. She rarely takes her shirt off, even if they're at port with their own room, and lets him be the one to remove it even less. He brushes her hair away from the nape of her neck and kisses the top of one white scar that peeks over her collar.

"Turn around for me, Darling?" Unlike her, he's not giving any orders, but she takes a deep breath and does as he asks.

His hands slip under her shirt, settling on her waist. He doesn't pin her against the door the way she did him, leaves her space enough to slip away if she wants. She doesn't, and the way he looks at her she suddenly feels like this is years ago when she wasn't as sure about the fact that she wanted him for herself. She rests her hands on his chest, fingers splayed over a thin scar that she personally stitched up once upon a time.

"You love me?" she doesn't look at him, asking even though she knows the answer.

Jack pulls her closer, hand sliding up her back like it isn't covered in more waxy scar tissue than actual skin. He tucks her hair behind her ear and kisses her cheek.

"I'd kill James Bonny every day for the rest of my life to sail with you," his lips brush her ear when he speaks and though it's fleeting, she grins. It's a better answer than she was expecting, she does so like when he's clever. He knows she don't really want to hear that he loves her more than even his precious reputation. Knows that she'll probably never say it back, doesn't expect her to or make her feel like she ought to.

The loose fabric of her shirt comes off easily and Jack is too busy looking at her to pay it any attention when he drops it to the floor. His hands are back on her skin, reverently making their way up her sides and his eyes are alight with a greedy pleasure as he looks at her body.

"Bloody gorgeous," his voice is hoarse and when he meets her gaze his expression is gentle and adoring. She looks off to the side, argument ready out of habit, but the corner of her lip tilts up in a smirk. This is what she wants from him, his mind absolutely nowhere except right here with her.

"What're you gonna do about it?" she's touching him again, one hand curled around the back of his neck while she slips the other down the front of his trousers. She's the one that always calls what they're going to do, he's never questioned it and has always rather encouraged it, but while she ain't giving him free reign she don't want to be the one to determine everything right now.

He gives up on giving her room to get away. Her back hits the wood of the door, his hand in her hair the only thing that keeps her head from doing the same. His lips are on hers again, hungry and desperate as he presses himself into her hand. She loves knowing she can do this to him, that even though she ain't as pretty as half the whores they've seen at various ports or cultured and intelligent like a proper lady, it's her that he picks. Every time.

She's gotten her hand out of his trousers, fingers tugging at the laces deftly right up until one of his hands is slipping down the front of her body. He doesn't stop, doesn't even hesitate, until his fingertips are brushing over the outside of her cunt, parting her folds to tease and she bucks into his hand with a sound that gets swallowed by the kiss.

"Is this what you were after down in the tavern?" he asks, voice low as he slides a finger into her with exquisite slowness. He kisses the curve of her jaw and her hands grip at the waist of his trousers as he draws a gasp from her.

"More'r less," she breathes out and it sounds like a single word. "was thinkin' more," she moves in time with the short thrusts of his hand, arms around his neck now. She swears she can feel him smile against her skin just before he adds a second finger and then he rubs with his thumb just right and she moans. " _Fuck, Jack,_ "

He nods, kissing her neck and continuing to draw soft sounds from her as she arches into him. He almost never gets her like this, the wanting without the brittle edge that has made him so damned careful with her from the beginning. Almost every part of him wants to take advantage of it because she's responding like it's what she wants too, but there's a better part of him that doesn't trust it. Not because he thinks it's disingenuous, but because the last thing he wants is to chance crossing some invisible line she didn't even realize was there and suddenly for her it's not his hands on her, but the memory of someone else.

He kisses her again, like he knows James Bonny never did, lingering and deep. He can feel the heat coming off of her feverish skin, knows what the red flush on her chest would look like right now if the light was good enough to see it; coaxes her that last little bit until she's whining in the back of her throat and her cunt spasms around his fingers like a vice, slick and tight.

It takes her a moment to catch her breath, breaking the kiss and sagging against Jack for support as he lets her come down slowly. She can feel how badly he wants her, that he's painfully hard pressed against her stomach even through the trousers he's still wearing.

"Thought I told you I wanted to fuck," she looks up at him with a wry smirk and gets one back in turn. He eases back just enough to let her slip by, one of her hands dragging over the front of his trousers as she passes and he hisses at the teasing touch, unable to do anything other than follow her. She stands by the edge of the bed and simply looks at him expectantly, knowing she doesn't need to use words to convey what she wants.

He shucks his trousers with as much speed as he can manage and almost before his back is to sheets she's straddling him. She rolls her hips, rubbing herself over the length of him and it throws his head back, his hands fumbling to grasp at the bedclothes because he's beyond ready to have her at this point.

"Anne, _please_ ,"

She loves hearing him beg, but that ain't the point tonight. He'd let her get distracted, but she had wanted to reward him. Always talking about how clever he is, she likes seeing the proof of it instead of just hearing about it. She can feel him straining to keep still as she sinks down on him. Even once her body meets his again he's trying so very hard, the effort clear on his face. Rather than draw it out she begins to move, encouraging him without words that he needn't hold back quite that much.

His hands are on her hips, guiding her with thinly veiled need as he matches her pace. She rakes her nails down his chest and earns an unabashed groan, her own breaths starting to come short. She's sweating in the warm Caribbean night and it doesn't take long before she's coming undone again, his name a soft cry on her lips.

That seems to do it for him. His grip tightens as he endeavors to press further into her with a swear and she could sigh with how much she loves this moment, when he's irrevocably hers.

She lays on his chest while they struggle to catch their breaths again. Neither of them speak, though she gets the distinct impression he's going to as soon as he can so she heads him off by pressing her fingers to his lips.

Eventually she eases off of him and rolls on to her side. He curls up behind her, an arm around her waist, and kisses the top of her head. She knows she's going to be too hot to enjoy it in a matter of minutes, but for the moment she lets herself relax into the curve of his body, eyelids suddenly heavy and difficult to keep open.

"If those clothes ain't where they are in the morning..." she reiterates, just in case he's forgotten.


End file.
